I started modelling when I was 13, doing fashion runway stuff for a local designer in Barbados. He’d have these fashion shows at a club/bar/tourist hangout that I frequented a lot. (Yes, I know I was 13. I was raised by bartenders, what can I say.)
When we moved to the U.S., I got approached to do some modelling. I never really got into it, partly because of self-confidence issues, partly because the whole thing scared me (and creeped me out when I had to take my undies off for a shoot because my panty-line showed), and partly because I felt it was just wrong to perpetuate the myth that 40-year-old women are supposed to look like 15-year-old girls who look like they’re 25 (that was me) and who were starving themselves to look like clothes hangars.
Because that’s what you do.
So I was around 128 lbs when I was 15 (and 5’8″ already) and every time my handler/manager person would see me, she’d praise my showing cheekbones (and hip bones) and tell me to lose just a few more pounds. Here’s the result (remember, I was 15 and not wearing any underwear).
My theory is that I’ve become fixated on this unreachable (unhealthy) number. And no amount of slimness will quite satisfy me. But I’m working on that. I know it’s silly and unreasonable and unrealistic. And I’m working those things out in my head. My realistic, really-I’m-going-to-be-happy-with-this, weight is the one where I fit comfortably into the clothes I already own. About 6 pounds from now. And that magic number is nowhere near 128.